Sweet Melody

Like the saviour from Heaven, 
He was bloomed in a stable,
Where he heard sweet melodies
And muted them into eternal words.
Unlike the saviour,
He was the bliss of spring,
And never the son of icy flakes,
But the eternal joy of winter.
Younger Romantic was he, 
Who churned liberty with lyric,
And scented Victorian buds with imagery.
Spenserian was he,
Who stood tip toe upon a little hill.
And the quill was he,
Who found the pain of Titans
And abandoned tears into Hyperion
As the star which dwelt apart eternized Satan.
Dream was he with the sight of a,
Bold lover who cans't kiss.
From the garden,
He sung for the goddess
By sweet enforcement and remembrance.
And he mourned for the farewell of time,
And fallen notes are invoked to inspire the buds.
And you can hear the melancholic chord,
Played by the nightingale caged from garden.
And agonies are poured
From the sleep and poetry urn.
With the moonlit sheep,
He mourned deeply for Chatterton,
But Shelley wept for his Adonais,
As the mighty quill chocked with consumption.
But the joy of beauty is immortal,
Through this unheard lyre.